For You, My Beloved Reader
by kkolmakov
Summary: A collection of one-shots based on readers' prompts and specifications. Modern AUs, some Middle Earth Hobbit AUs; Thorin, Fili, Kili, my OCs Wren and Thea, and anything and everything you asked for. Ratings vary; M to be on the safe side. Hope you enjoy! Love you all ardently! Yours truly, kkolmakov
1. A Few Words

**This story will be a collection of assorted one-shots written based on readers' prompts.**

 **If you are not familiar with my writing, please, proceed to chapter 2 and 3.**

 **They can be read independently.**

 **If you are familiar with my OC Wren, have a peek below :)**

* * *

Hello, my duckies!

And here it is, my gratitude embodied in my mediocre writing. Thank you so much for...

 **Are you playing a humble card here, Katya?**

Oh? Wren, are you joining us today?

 **Well, you seem to be so soppy today that you are even giving me my own voice. Or maybe you are influenced by that awesome Deadpool/Spiderman slash fic you are reading right now, and the fourth wall is being a bit thin today... *giggles***

Um... Maybe. But again, we should probably let you speak today as well. After all we are expressing our love and gratitude to our readers for their support, and their generosity, and...

 **Sorry to interrupt you, but you really should cut down on caffeine today. You are so mawkish I can hear you sniffling from here.**

I am entitled. I am overwhelmed with love to my readers. Have you seen the title of this story?

 **I have. And I should probably join you in this spiel. If not for all those reviews and PMs, you'd have given up writing long ago and I would have gotten less of my... Dwarven pudding... *giggles again* Though you also seem to be rather fond of dragging me through rather profound unpleasantries, so I am not certain I should be glad you had not stopped at some happily ever after. Say, in Hogwarts.**

Oh common, Wren, you love my stories. You get to touch all that! *point at the picture of Thorin Oakenshield pinned to the wall over her desk*

 **Oh... *voice slightly breathy and dreamy* Can't argue with that. Although, it's not just about touching, Katya! *shakes her finger* He is not just a body for me. Us. We love the soul, the will, the courage, the...**

Who is mawkish now? Just accept it, Wren, most people are here for smut. And a bit of fluff. And there is plenty of it in my stories, including completely unnecessary descriptions of his chest.

 **His chest is important! *indignified squeak* It is an essential part of any plot! Have you seen it?!**

Actually... no. But I have clearly imagined it so you could. How was it?

 ***deep sigh***

Yep, exactly.

 **Oh, by the way, thank you for his mental body temperature. So nice! And that one thing he does when he sticks his finger...**

*interrupts* Um, Wren, it's not that sort of fic. Please, concentrate on thanking our readers.

 ***shakes her head to clear her thoughts* Yes, yes, sorry, I just got distracted by some fond memories. Of course, I will get back on the point. Thank you, dear readers, for sticking by, for being patient when I was difficult to relate to, for accepting yet another redhead, as overused as this trope is, for forgiving my being a bit too Mary Sue sometimes, as well as my being of Men, and again it has been done millions of time. Thank you for sympathising and cheering and scolding. Each of your reviews was important, because it allowed Katya to strive to be better. And... *a small giggle* for calling Thorin and me OTP that one time. It was so rewarding...**

Um, Wren, we don't say the O word. Well, it's an abbreviation, but copyright, Wren! There is no OTP for Thorin Oakenshield. Unless they find some of Tolkien's previously undiscovered notebooks, and there will be some Dwarven princess there...

 **La-la-la, I cannot hear you! No, I am completely deaf! La-la-la!**

Are you jealous, Wren?

 **Well, let us say I am not enjoying this thinned fourth wall at the moment.**

Should I let you get back to your text then and enjoy some blissful ignorance?

 **Yes, please *decorous tone* Am I going to enjoy the text?**

I hope so. But more important, we are hoping you, my darling readers, will.

* * *

 ** _With ardent love and eternal gratitude,_**

 ** _Katya and Wren_**


	2. We Are the Island

**_For UKReader_**

 ** _Modern AU where Wren and Thorin are stranded on a desert island_**

* * *

 _Somewhere between the Galapagos Islands and Panama, on a_ _Lloyds Ships Holdings yacht_

* * *

John steps to the deck, a fag cowardly hidden behind his back. He hasn't smoked for ten years now, but tonight's special. He's in a fucking aggro. John is a man of stable convictions and unflappable understanding who he is and how he is to behave. Both have been challenged repeatedly in the last few days, and he decides a healthy dosage of nicotine is in order.

John knows a lot and doubts none of it. Among other things, he knows that there is no such thing as love at first sight, and another man's woman is out of question. But there is this just one thing…

The aforementioned one thing turns out to be at the cursed deck as well, and John chokes on the smoke. He didn't see her getting up from the table, but again, he ran away like a spotty teen.

She looks lovely in the moonlight. Both like an angel, which John doesn't believe in, and the dirtiest fantasy he has ever had. It's the white floor length dress, hanging around her tittle frame, teasing and forcing him to make assumptions. Modern fashion leaves little to imagination, but this one wears all sorts of flowy somethings, and John's having dreams bordering to adolescent wet kind.

She's also currently enthusiastically vomiting over that rail thingie that probably has some posh name.

"Wren, are you alright?" he asks, his voice breaking of course. Spotty teen experience rerun ahoy, fuck him.

"No, I am not. I'm vomiting." He is by now used to her sarcastic sharp humour, and her strong melodic voice, with a distinct Irish accent, and he steps closer.

The bloody yacht is bobbing on waves, and John assumes it's seasickness. _Airloom_ , and he hates the pretentious name, is the yacht of his brother-in-law, and John doubts the prick knows what he's doing. The guests and the owners are indulging downstairs, whatever it's called, helping themselves to martinis and oysters, and John is grappling to some rail trying not to stare at the colleague of his sister's. She has this amazing creamy skin, and is probably even paler now. He had such wonderful dream about it last night, his never previously present imagination supplying him with a rather realistic sensation of his tongue sliding on the inside of her thigh.

She straightens up, also grippling to the closest rail. John asks himself whether the yacht is supposed to jump up and down so much and whether he's supposed to receive so much water splashed into his face.

"I hate this yacht..." the redhead of his dreams grumbles, and he nods, although she probably can't see.

"We should go back. I have a bad feeling about it..." These would be ace last words.

He hopes they are not, when the yacht topples, with some strange noise, and repeated bashing into its side. In the last moment the blood of the generations and generations of seafarers, which he's heard about from his Nana, wakes up in him, and he braces himself, and lunges ahead, wrapping his arms around the redhead's small body.

This way it's his spine that meets with the rail. The pain's a surprise and a manky one. Not in itself, but the amount of it. He squeezes his eyes, reminding himself that the years of therapy have indeed cured him of aquaphobia, and that's when his lungs fill with salty water.

* * *

 _Somewhere not too far from the previous part, but this time on land…_

* * *

He comes back to his senses to the sensation of his legs being wet, trousers stuck to them in the most grotty way possible, his skin being burnt as if on a Septic BBQ, and to the sound of a person vomiting. He opens his eyes and immediately squints them again. Hot harsh sunlight in combination with a coating of salt on his eyeballs is a bitch. He is lying his bottom half in the soft waves rolling over white sand, his limbs spread like that of the proverbial seastar.

He rolls on his side, groans and can finally look at the source of the sad puking sounds. She is on all four, the flowy white dress is gone, and she is indubitably pregnant. He is not good at determining how far, but she definitely is. It's funny really. He's finally had a look on her body, and it's better than his fantasies. Long shapely legs, miniscule waist, small tits, just the perfect size. It's just this neat little round stomach that makes him think they might be more fucked than he thought a second ago when he assumed he's just survived a yacht wreck with a woman he's been lusting after.

"Wren..."

"It's an island," she croaks and sits down on the sand. "We are on a tiny island. I couldn't wake you up and couldn't pull you out more. You're heavy. I walked around. We have some boxes and supplies washed out with us, I don't know where my dress is, and I thought you wouldn't wake up. You were breathing, but I thought you were in coma." She pronounces all that with machine gun speed, and he can see the dilated pupils in her odd eyes. They are slanted, almost Asian looking, the colour changes all the time. He wouldn't be able to tell his sister's eye colour. Wren's he has noticed. He has noticed everything about her. Well, except her pregnancy apparently.

"How far along are you?" he asks and then realises that she is in shock.

Everything hurts. Especially his back, but he crawls to her, and when his hand lies on her shoulder, she crumbles.

She is crying for a while. After a few minutes he pulls her on his lap, his arms go around her. He is whispering it's going to be alright. Then he gets up and carries her in the shade of a palm tree. Her pale skin is already angry red. While she is sobbing loudly without wiping her eyes, her small hands fisted, he shakes off his tux and socks, shoes having been lost somewhere in the water. The waistcoat follows, it's harder to take off, because he only has one arm, another one is needed around her. After a second of consideration he takes off the shirt as well, only vest left on him. He throws the shirt on her shoulders, to protect the white skin and cheery freckles on them from the sun. Her nose is red too, making freckles peppering the bridge almost disappear. He is rocking her, whispering, making promises he can't keep, while his mind's working frantically.

* * *

It honestly could've been worse. They have a lot of cutlery; a crate of champagne; several fishing rods, John tentatively prays thanking God he hasn't believed in before; a small stream of clean water; plenty of coconuts and five wild tomato bushes; three boxes of canned maraschino cherries for his sister's favourite Rob Roys; a guitar; three bottles of Grey Goose vodka, he hates the drink, Wren obviously won't have any, but it might come useful medicinally; a charger for iPhone, John doesn't forget to mention the irony in his prayers but he doesn't judge; a box of Sharpie markers; a football; three scented candles; a jar of allspice; a pillow; a loudspeaker; three copies of John's cookbook, Amazon Bestseller three years in a row; three suitcases, one is Wren's, two more belonged to John's sister and her husband.

* * *

Wren takes the last shuddered sobby breath in, her nose pressed to his neck.

"I am a nurse," she speaks surprisingly soberly.

"I'm a chef," he answered, and she slightly moves away from him. Her face is very close still, and he sees her eyes are sane and sharp.

"I know. We discussed your book at dinner, remember?"

"What kind of nurse are you?"

"Surgical. And six," she adds, and he cocks a brow confused. "I'm six months pregnant."

"You don't look six months pregnant." He is tenderly stroking her shoulder. He wonders if this conversation is held purely to distract her from the barney they are in, but then he realises she's calm.

"Yeah, I'm not showing much... I'm just small, I reckon." She sniffles and wipes her cheeks and her nose. "What do you think happened?" The question of other passengers hangs in the air.

"I don't know," he answers both questions at the same time. He thinks about his sister and her prick of a husband, and his heart pangs. There were five more people on that yacht besides them. He hardly knew the other three. There are no pieces of the boat floating in the waves. They still might be alright.

"I think we should assume we won't be found for a while..." she says soberly, her small strong hand is wrapped around his wrist. He nods. "Does anything hurts?" she suddenly asks, and he looks at her in confusion. "Are you hurt, John?" He somehow hasn't thought that he might be the one requiring care in this situation.

"No, I'm fine."

"I should have a look." Her tone's professional, and for the first time since that wave shook the yacht he remembers that he desperately wants her. In all possible ways.

"I'm fine, really..." he mumbles but she slides off his lap. She's dressed in plain white knickers, they look like tiny shorts, very modest, but he is avoiding looking at them at all cost. There is also what he assumes is a sports bra. It's just a piece of fabric across her chest, covering her tits, with narrow straps. It's also white, cotton, and supposed to be dull, while he's suddenly feeling hot. And it's not because they are on an exotic island with white sand and blue sea.

"Take off your vest, please. I need to look. I think you might have hit your back..."

The pain is definitely there, but he suddenly really doesn't want her to touch him. Or wants it too much. He wonders what's wrong with him. He wasn't that focused on shag and whatnot even when he was a teen. They're fucking stranded on an island and in all sorts of fucked up aggro, and all he can think of that she'll be touching him. It must be stress.

She makes him lie down on his stomach, he's gritting his teeth. She's examining him, strong fingers prod his back and ribs, and he is equally aroused and ticklish. He almost can't feel the pain in the three ribs that he broke.

Apparently his back is one big purple bruise, and she suddenly strokes along his spine with her small dry palm. He peeks over his shoulder. She has a guilty face.

"I'm so sorry… It's all because of me. You were protecting me..."

He wants to heroically reassure her when she suddenly leans in and kisses his shoulder. He's gaping at her like an imbecile. She blushes. He has seen it before, she colours easily, but this one's bright and heady.

"Um… I don't know why I did this..." She presses her palm over her forehead. "Must be the shock..."

He's that close to saying that he thinks he might have hurt something on his face as well, and then he reminds himself of the proverbial ring on her finger. He looks. There is no ring. He can't remember if she had any before.

"Do you know how to fish?" she asks, and he just nods since he can't trust his voice.

* * *

It indeed could have been worse. He somehow manages to start fire pretty quickly, all those camping trips pay off. Fresh coconut, fish he catches and roasts, and fresh water make a very nice dinner. She laughs and says she's grateful she doesn't feel aversion to fish. He theatrically wrinkles his nose, he hates allspice and never uses it in his cooking. With main needs met, she had to run to the bushes about million of times by now, and a small tent built out of tablecloths and wires pulled out of the speaker, they sit sides pressed into each other and can finally discuss their predicament.

Neither seems willing to break the silence. She puts her head on his shoulder and picks up his hand. Their fingers intertwine, and suddenly he feels a knot in his throat. He clenches his teeth hoping she won't notice.

"They are most likely alright. There was no wreckage," she suddenly says softly, and he draws a sharp breath. He isn't sure whether he is just surprised she guessed or also grateful for the reassurance. She flips his hand, and the tips of her fingers are gently stroking the inside of his wrist. The gesture is very her. And feels very nice. He breathes easier.

"I know it's a horrible thing to say," she murmurs, "but I'm so glad you are here with me… That you were there... When the wave hit. Being on this island alone… I don't know what I'd have done..." He pressed his cheek over her hair. It's soft, even after salty water, and there is a lot of it. Bright orange springs that she styled elegantly on the yacht, he especially liked it pinned on one side, soft waves on the other shoulder. Right now it's wild, scattered on her shoulders.

"I'm glad too..." he murmurs, and it's almost true.

* * *

It takes about five days to settle in. They are somewhat comfortable. She continues to vomit often but apparently it's been like that from the start. That's the only thing he learns about her current life. They talk. A lot. But it's either about him, he is unusually open about his life with her. A restaurant in New York, two Michelin stars, three cookbooks, no girlfriend or boyfriend. Or sometimes they talk about both their pasts, childhood, uni, family. She is an orphan, foster system, works with his sister in St. Thomas' but that's it. Nothing of the baby, or its father. He often sees her rubbing the stomach, her eyes are distant. She never cries.

Altogether she is the best person to be cast away with. She is calm, sober, easy to talk to. After the first night they sleep together.

They watch the first sunset, and he offers her the pillow. She takes it without false modesty and puts it down. She curls in a small ball, and he covers her with another table cloth. He is couple feet away from her, under his tux. And in the last rays of sunlight he suddenly sees her shoulders shake. He moves and touches her arm. She turns, her eyes are dry, but widened. She has also bitten into her bottom lip, and he thinks he can see blood. He wants to tell her she really doesn't need to hold it together that well, that she is entitled to a meltdown, but instead he just pulls her into him.

They fit. He has always hated sleeping with women. As in closing eyes and entering REM. Shagging them he's liked a lot. But sleeping, no. Legs and sharp elbows, too hot, too cold, and altogether he likes his space. He wonders if this is shock or something more. The small narrow hand lies on his chest, and he feels the hard round stomach press into his side.

"Good night, John."

"Night, Wren."

* * *

Two weeks later they are sitting in front of their campfire, it's getting dark, but neither seems sleepy. They have just laughed for half an hour straight, and they are both out of breath. She is amazing in impersonations, and her Alan Rickman is to die for. She also has photographic memory and has been retelling Lao She to him. His side hurts from all the guffawing he's done.

"Well, John..." She is nibbling on a piece of coconut, her eyes sparkling mischievously. "It's your turn to enrich this evening. What are you talents besides somehow making fish taste different each evening?"

"It tastes the same, Wren," he adopts a fake condescending tone. "It's just your tastebuds being bonkers." She giggles and sticks her tongue at him. He takes a deep breath in. He hasn't done it in years, but why the hell no? "I sing. And we have a guitar." She perks up and is almost bobbing on her tablecloth.

"Oh yes, please. Your voice is ace, it should be even sexier when singing!"

He has by now learnt of that habit of hers. She is eloquent, educated, somewhat bookish. Careful phrasing and proper speech. And then something conks out, and she turns into this mad babbler. Say first, think second. He adores it.

Right now it's hard to say which one of them is mortified more. She makes a little squeak, also familiar to him already, jumps on her feet, and rushes away and under the palm trees. He wonders if she is hiding, but she is just getting the guitar.

He touches the strings. The guitar is as much as useless.

"It's damaged bywater." He tries his best, but the sound's still rubbish. "It won't do, Wren."

"I'm tone deaf," she reassures, and he looks up at her. She's apparently gotten over her previous careless statement and already looks very cheery.

She is so beautiful he suddenly doesn't know how he's lived before this daft island. Her cheeks are rosy, the eyes are sparkling merrily. She waves at him with the piece of coconut in her fingers, encouraging him. Her mental hair is braided in two braids, strips torn from a tablecloth in neat little bows at the ends. She is wearing his sister's blouse, it's a dress on her.

"I can't think of a single song…."

"How lucky are we that I have a photographic memory?" She is grinning. "I know a lot of lyrics. As long as you know the melody, I can help you… How about _Take Me to Church_?" she asks, and then blushes. "It's just that this song's everywhere, and I really fancy it. Do you know the melody?"

"I know the melody, Wren..." He shakes his head at the strange turn this evening is taking and touches the strings. He really hopes she's indeed tone deaf. He's got the perfect pitch, and for him it's a torture.

It quickly stops being one when he sees her eyes widen, the coconut fall out of her fingers, and her chest heave from his singing. If he didn't know better, he'd assume she wants him, at least one percent as much as he wants her. That would still be plenty. He's having those dreams again. Having her pressed into his body in the morning doesn't help. She of course noticed the wood, but it's one of those things they don't discuss.

 _She tells me 'worship in the bedroom'/_

 _The only heaven I'll be sent to_

 _Is when I'm alone with you._

Her lips slightly open, the reflection of the camp fire dances on her face, and he closes his eyes.

 _If I'm a pagan of the good times/_

 _My lover's the sunlight/_

 _To keep the Goddess on my side._

He can hear her inhale loudly, and his voice grows raspy, but he sings through the constricted throat.

 _Take me to church/_

 _I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies/_

 _I'll tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife/_

 _Offer me that deathless death/_

 _Good God, let me give you my life._

He hears some rustling, and then he knows he is alone by the fire. He opens his eyes and stares at where she sat before. He can see the white of her blouse at the beach, near the water. Before the island he'd go after a woman in such case, he's no coward to go after something he wants so much. He is also hardly thick. He could see how affected she was. But it's a small island. He'd be intruding, leaving her no choice but to talk to him. And he grew to respect her, besides wanting to shag her until she can't speak and the only word she can breathe out is his name. He might be in love with her as well. So he puts the guitar aside and goes to the tent.

She comes much later, he is half ready to go look for her. She lies down the same way she always does, pressing into his side, but she is rigid. He keeps quiet. He thinks it's her decision.

It takes an hour for her to start talking. He is plain tired of lying that still.

"Are you not interested or just that good at keeping it under control?" Her voice is trembling slightly.

He is now familiar with her convoluted thinking process, she has 165 IQ; and with her no less convoluted way of forming sentences. He is pondering her question and then shifts, taking her off him softly and rolling on his side. Their faces are now at the same level and very, very close.

"I didn't think I'm that good at keeping it under control… I'm not good at hiding it for sure," he speaks quietly.

"I've noticed the mornings..." she mumbles, probably blushing. It's dark, he can see the expression, but not the colour. He wonders if her cheeks feel hot when she blushes. He's especially interested if his lips would feel the difference. "But I assumed that's… well, just mornings..."

"It's not." He is keeping his voice soft. And his hands from stretching towards her. The fingers twitch but he respects her too much. Everything is wrong in this situation. She is vulnerable in every possible way, and he's been brought up a gentleman. He might have been afraid of commitment, but nothing has been more important to him than consent. With her, he suddenly thinks, he isn't afraid. But he doesn't need to be reminded of everything that is bodged up now.

"Wren, we really don't have to talk about it..." She's studying his face. He knows one of 'Wren style statements' is coming a second before she opens her mouth.

"If I ask you to pretend that nothing's happening, will you behave like before and never speak of it again?" Her voice is even.

"Of course," he answers firmly. He is almost insulted she'd assume otherwise. She's pondering. And then he sees she's arrived to some internal decision.

"How much of it is the island... and the baby?" He's grown to admire her ability to put information that one would need to lecture on into one sentence. It's one of the things that made him open and talkative with her. She listens. She understands. She is perfect for him. He just doesn't know if he's perfect for her.

"None of it is the island and the baby, Wren." He is a hundred percent sure in his answer.

Her kiss is firm. And so hot that he groans like a teen that finally got there. It's like a nuke in his noggin. He was completely wrong about what she's like in bed. He thought she's a gentle dove. She is so delicate and polite and there is this amazing grace in her. In bed, although it's not a bed, it's just a tablecloth, she is demanding, wild, and artless. She is loud and likes to be on top. She is relentless, and they go on till dawn.

* * *

She sleeps later than usual in the morning, naked, curled under another tablecloth and his tux, and he's watching her face. One amber coloured eye opens, and she gives him a cheeky grin.

"Are you ogling me, Thorington?"

He decides actions speak better than words, and they go four more times.

They stop because it's too hot. It was raining the day before and they collected some water. They wash off and lie together in the tent. They have no strength for any more of the same, so they're just kissing lazily and he's playing with orange curls.

"God, it's such a relief..." she mumbles distractedly. Her fingers are dancing in his chest hair. He senses a kink. "I've been so randy this whole time I had the most inappropriate dreams. I'm surprised I haven't molested you in my sleep..."

"I can't say you haven't tried. I've caught your hand wandering the cock areas couple times." He is laughing softly, and she jerks.

"What?!" Her eyes are giant, and he guffaws.

"Yeah, but I assumed you were dreaming..."

"I was!" She hisses defensively.

"I meant, you were dreaming… not about me," he finished awkwardly, and she stops drawing some random squiggles on his bare chest with her index finger. She meets his eyes, and he is once again grateful that she is her. One doesn't need to explain a lot to her.

She gives it a thought. She is kind, empathic, and a decent person. But she's also very calculative. She's clearly wondering if it's safe to trust him. He doesn't blame her. There are just the two of them on this island. And besides, being with someone even in a ten million city is putting oneself in a weak position. He's willing to try with her. He isn't scared to be weak with someone anymore. But she needs to want it too.

Her features soften, and meeting his eyes again she smiles softly. She looks a bit sad, but he knows it's not about him.

"The dreams were about you. From the start. At the yacht even. I just thought… You know, the baby, yeah?" He nods, and she sighs. "It was a one off. I don't even know his surname. I called him when I found out, he said it was my problem." He frowns. He just clearly imagined punching the wanker's face. He doesn't know the face, and maybe they should leave it that way. Whatever happens between him and Wren now, John can't promise the bloke wouldn't get acquainted with the infamous Thorington temper if their paths ever cross. They don't call him 'The Dragon of the Kitchen' for nothing.

Wren is studying his face again. He then feels confused.

"And your husband?"

"My husband?" Her eyebrows jump up.

"My sister said he couldn't come to the vacation because he was busy… Did he not come because of the... baby?" Wren suddenly laughs, it's a silver laughter.

"I don't have a husband. Your sister was just being a bit of a prude. I told her about the one off, but I guess she thought..." Wren doesn't get to finish her explanation. He pulls her to his lips. She doesn't seem to mind.

* * *

They are rescued after 38 days. His sister and her prick of the husband are alright, and John just wouldn't stop hugging them both.

John and Wren are married by the captain of a rescue boat. Mira is born a month too early, but she is healthy and John can't stop taking her photos and show them to anyone who wants to look. And even those who clearly don't.

Once she is three, it becomes clear she's Wren's copy. The same carrot hair, turn up nose, and freckles.

"Only pretty," Wren laughs.

"Just as pretty," John corrects her. "Do you think the next one will have at least something from me?" John asks, bobbing Mira on his lap, and she grabs handfuls of his hair, not pulling but gleefully tangling her little fingers in his dark waves.

"We'll see," Wren answers rubbing her round stomach. "And can I have some of that coconut crusted tilapia?" she asks, and John shakes his head.

"You'd think you'd never want any fish or coconut again after that adventure." Wren shrugs.

"I still want you after that adventure. And after all, it wasn't that bad. I might even consider a vacation in that area some time." John shudders and picks up Mira and turns her to face him.

"Your mother is a mad woman. Amazing in every possible way, but positively mad."

"Less talking, more serving food, Thorington," Wren commands, her nose in her book again, and John gladly obliges.

* * *

 **Personal note to the reader:**

 **My darling, I love you. Thank you so much for being with me this whole time and being nothing but generous, supportive, and kind! Our conversations picked me up when I felt low, your jokes made me laugh, and having you as my reader simply made writing worthwhile. Not once you have been a bit neglectful or inconsiderate even when I didn't deserve it. Just for the fact that I met you through my writing, I am grateful for that day when the first 300 words in an awkward Thorin drabble were born under my fingers.**

 **UKReader , I only hope you know how I appreciate you!**

 **Love,**

 **kkolmakov**


	3. Golden and Black

**For Wynni**

 **The prompt is emitted till the end of the story not to ruin the surprise ;)**

* * *

1.

It was their fourth date, and Wren felt they both knew where it was going. It was quite funny, because she'd been completely sure there wouldn't be even the second one. Wren didn't date. Period. She had always considered it was for the best. After all, letting anyone near her would be the worst possible idea considering her life choices.

John was different though. It just clicked. Right then and there, in a small coffee shop where he approached her. She had a bedhead and wore glasses, for comfort reasons, contacts tended to eat at her eyeballs. She was reading a book and chewing at a scone, and he just blew her away. He was calm, polite and straightforward. He told her he found her very attractive, and he approved of her choice of a book. He said he almost never dated but for her he was ready to make an exception. She almost refused him, but something stopped her. It wasn't the looks, though there was nothing to complain about. He was tall, almost six five, large, wide, with an impressive mane of dark weaves scattered on his shoulders. She loved the blue eyes and the beautiful artistic wrists, long fingered hands, and an arse to die for. She decided to return the favour and explained to him that she never dated either, and if any, could spare him very little time. She gave him her usual explanation of working in a hospital and having a lot of night shifts. He nodded and explained that he worked in a network security firm, which meant he also had a lot of night shifts, consisting of sitting in front of a screen and reading lines and lines of code. She hardly understood anything from his explanation but somehow listening to him didn't bore her. Once again, it was perhaps for a very petty reason. He had the most beautiful of voices, low, velvet, perfectly articulated, with a slight irregularity in vowels due to his Northern accent.

Wren said yes. They had dinner and the most wonderful of conversations that just wouldn't end. They eventually separated, agreeing to text, and only when she fell on her bed, clutching her mobile in the hand, she realised that she hoped for a text right away. That was the first. And she also realised they didn't kiss. That was also the first. She had so little time for romance that if she ever ended up on a date with a bloke, she preferred to quickly turn it into a one-off. She had neither time, nor patience to wait for a bloke to call. The text came ten minutes later, and Wren felt giddy.

The second date ended with the most perfect of kisses. Somehow everything just came together. They were walking, the conversation sort of paused, and the silence was amazingly comfortable, snow was falling softly on their heads, and he looked very handsome in the light of streetlamps. She slipped, he caught her elbow. She winced from the fresh bruise on her ribs, but hoped he didn't notice. He supported her under the second elbow then, she lifted her eyes at him, and then he leaned in. There was a second there, when he seemed to let her decide, at the same time showing her how much he wanted it, and her feminist ideals cheered. Her mitt covered hand lay on his nape, and she pulled him down and to her lips. He was skillful, tender, and so mindblowingly fit, that in just a few seconds she was as much as hanging on him, he was wrapped around her. For the first time in her life, despite the height difference, she didn't feel suffocated when a pair of long strong arms enveloped her.

Date three was full of laughter and some endearing shyness. They pussyfooted around each other for a few seconds when they met. He first leaned in to her cheek, she tried to shift. They bumped their noses. Both laughed. Then she cupped his jaw and led him to her lips. Three minutes after, she realised they were kissing passionately in front of restaurant with their reservation. They laughed. With each new course it was becoming more and more obvious that they both were thinking of where they'd go after pudding.

She couldn't bring him to her place, but he didn't know that. She sipped her coffee and wondered how to delicately ask him whether she could come over to his place, when his mobile rang. He excused himself and stepped away from the table to take the call.

He had to leave, and she felt a rather sensitive pang of disappointment. It'd been awhile for her. The thing she had with the American fell apart fifteen months ago, and there was no one else since. She also thought that she might have been wrong but it felt as if she'd never wanted anyone so much as him.

Even more astonishingly, she actually loved talking to him. He had a dry sense of humour, odd at times, but somehow completely perfect for her. He was well read, witty, but not chatty. Wren didn't fancy chatty men.

This was date four, and she was still poking her salad, when he suddenly put down his spoon and exhaled sharply.

"Wren, could we leave?" John asked, and she suddenly realised that it'd been the best idea ever.

He hastily paid, and they rushed outside. The snow was swirling around in a thick flurry, and he suddenly pulled her to his lips.

"Wren..." he breathed out, and the kiss was deep, and passionate, and everything she dreamt of. "I never do that… But you are just so... " She smiled into his lips, and then he slightly moved away. "I'm sorry, but we can't go to my place. Among other things, it's just cluttered... and it's..." His pupils were dilated, lips swollen from her enthusiastic efforts, and he shook his head clearing his thoughts. He then cupped her face gently, and she as much as purred from the wonderful feeling of his scorching palms on her skin. "I don't want to seem manky, but can we find some nice B&B? I can pay, or we can share the expenses, and..." He was clearly uncomfortable, but she had to agree. It would be most convenient. All circumstances in mind.

Wren smiled to him and pulled him into another kiss. And then another.

"Sure, a B&B sounds rad."

* * *

She expected awkwardness and some other grotty feelings to kick in any moment, but it was just wonderful. They took a cab, they kissed at the back seat, and he helped her to climb out of it. With her hardly five three her feet tended to dangle and never reach the ground. They walked in, his arm wrapped around her shoulders, and instead of usual irritation from such gesture she felt warm and safe, and pressed into his side. They got the key and kissed some more in the lift.

The room was clean and cozy, they ordered some bites, she didn't drink, and he didn't want any. There was a fireplace, and they didn't turn on the light. Standing became uncomfortable, and he pulled her down in an armchair in front of fire. Sitting on his lap, wrapped in his arms, she fully enjoyed his lips, her fingers scraping at the coarse whiskers of his beard.

His hands were wandering and then he pulled at the hem of her top. And then she remembered about the bruises.

"Um… John?" He hummed into her neck, his lips tenderly brushing to her throat. "I'm afraid to ruin the mood, but there is this thing..." He slightly moved away and cocked an eyebrow questioningly. She properly fancied the eyebrow. "I have a bit of a complex, a hang up, and… Can we keep my vest on? I mean, you probably want access to..." She gestured around her tits, and he smirked.

"I do… But I also want you to feel comfortable." She exhaled and smiled to him. That was nice. His consideration was very nice.

She pushed her hands in his mane and doubled her efforts on his lips. A few ace minutes later he tore his mouth off hers.

"Actually… That reminds me..." He smiled to her a bit shy, lovely crow's feet running in the corners of his eyes. "I was an imbecile last week… You know, how I told you I play rugby? So my brother-in-law and I went for that game last week… Basically all my left side is one big bruise. Would that be OK?"

Wren quickly got over the coincidence, which wasn't a coincidence to think of it. She was always covered in bruises. She giggled.

"What do you mean, would it be OK? It's not like I'm buying an apple, and don't want a smashed side." He guffawed.

"No, you aren't." He leaned in and quickly kissed her lips. "We can close the door to the parlour and the bedroom will be dark, and..."

"Tough tits! I want to see!" Wren interrupted, and he guffawed again.

She did. She had a suspicion that under the soft cardigans and dull button-ups there was quite a nice body. He had a naturally wonderful build, wide shoulders, narrow hips, most deliciously shaped buttocks. He wasn't either lean or heavy, just the perfect balance. And her hands had wandered a bit already. There was definitely chest hair under the jumper and the shirt, she could feel the roughness through the clothes. She wanted to see, and touch, and taste.

She jumped off his lap, and grabbing his hand she led him to the bedroom. Clothes slid off, without haste but not too slowly. She remembered Durex, and he had some of his own. He wasn't cocky about it, a bit shy, but altogether it went very smoothly. She also thought of the right knickers, and the red lace seemed to properly work for him. Her bra and vest stayed, and he was so passionate, hot, and altogether magical that she even didn't feel pain when his large hand would brush over the battered ribs.

He was right. His left side was quite impressively purple. She flipped him on his back, her lips and hands exploring the chest and then the stomach, moving slower. She kept in mind to avoid touching the bruises, but he clearly didn't mind too much. After a few delicious moments he suddenly sat up jerkily and picked her up under her arms. She licked her lips and looked at him questioningly.

"It's been a while..." he rasped. "If you go on, I'll embarrass myself… And I want you…" She smiled to him widely. She properly enjoyed her previous oral efforts, though the task was rather labourious. His cock was large, thick, with a peculiar curve to it. Lovely indeed.

He rolled her underneath him, covering her body but not weighing on her too much. Her legs went around his hips, and she shifted her pelvis inviting him inside. He pushed in with a groan, and she arched on the bed with a loud moan.

He felt magnificent inside. Like he belonged.

"God, it's like it's been made for it..." he mumbled, and she laughed loudly. It felt so right and so hot, and she spurred him with her heels digging into his backside.

"Please, move..." she exhaled, and he did.

They were moving together, on the bed, and against each other, in a surprising for the first time accordance. She would gasp, and her hand slid on his back, he would thrust deeper and deeper, making her cry out in acute pleasure. Her nails dug into his back, and he found her lips, at the most perfect moment, just as she wanted a second before it.

She came with a loud unrestrained scream, and he followed in a couple seconds. His hips pumped into her, and she arched and spread her legs wider, taking him even deeper, and then her arms and legs went tightly around him, she pulled him in, clenching around him, prolonging the pleasure for both of them.

He stayed immobile for a few seconds, and then he fell on her making her puff air out.

"Sorry… Just a mo..." he mumbled into the pillow, and she stroked the back of his head, her hand full of his heavy silken strands. They were dark with the sexiest silver streaks on the temples and above his forehead. And then he moved off her carefully. His head was near hers on the pillow, and he turned and looked at her. She smiled to him, and he gently kissed her.

That night they went two more times, with a break for snacks, and a lot of talking, and it was probably close to dawn when she realised she could hardly keep her eyes open. They climbed under the duvet ,and she curled into him. It was so wonderfully natural, to sleep with him, no awkwardness, none of her usual desire to run from a man as if he were a carrier of Black Death.

It's been three months, and it's been pretty much the same. And that was ace. They went to cinema once, and watched a cartoon, since it was his job to check the schedule and he said he had, but he clearly hadn't. It was fun, and they kissed like teens in the theatre, and the cartoon was actually very nicely made. They went for ice cream once, and twice to a book shop. Wren sometimes would stop and just shake her head. It was almost impossible to believe. It was so not her. Her real life was different. It didn't involve kissing between bookshelves, sharing the last slice of a treacle tart, or waking up in someone else's arms, feeling pure and unadulterated happiness.

Four weeks after the first date the bruises on her torso healed a bit, and she told him she was comfortable enough with him to take off her top. It was only a half lie, she indeed had never felt so liberated with a man before. He seemed to be very chuffed with the advancement. After all, he seemed to be very much a tits man. Apparently hers were best he'd ever seen.

She had a funny feeling about never seeing his flat, but after a while he explained that he lived with his sister and her family, and she accepted the explanation. She said she had a flatmate.

She grew into a habit of carrying a toothbrush in her handbag. He had a mad schedule, she still used her usual excuse of night shifts in the hospital, but altogether they were somehow making it work.

* * *

2.

"What do you think of the whole superhero thing going on in the city?" Wren asked when they were soaking a large tub. She was rubbing his chest with her foot, and he had his head dropped back on the edge of the bath, eyes closed.

"What superhero thing?" he asked lazily, his hand stroking her knee.

"You know, they say that superhero, Black King has gone dark, after losing his sidekick, and the city is appealing to Golden Tide, that chick with golden ribbons shooting out of her hands, to hunt him down. I mean the bloke has been protecting this city for so long... "

He lifted his head and gave her an attentive look. She was chewing at her bottom lip, her face pensive, quite clearly speaking to herself.

"And what do you think?" John asked. She hummed distractedly, her small fingers dancing on her other knee, in her usual fidgety habit. Her unusual slanted eyes were narrowed, and he studied her face. The high cheekbones, currently flushed from the hot water and the very enthusiastic shag they had had on the floor of the B'n'B bathroom, her wide mouth, with curved bright red lips that drove him positively bonkers; her face was familiar, he had had a good look at it over the past months. And suddenly he just felt sort of wonky.

"Wren? What do you think of it?"

"Hm?" She blinked, shaking off her stupour, and then her face relaxed again. "To be honest, I don't think about it much… Just saw the article..." She pointed at the newspaper lying on a stool by the wall. He brought it with him and was reading the aforementioned article while filling the bath for them. And then she came in, and somehow the bed seemed too far.

Black King Rules No More? John had to agree, the title was pretty catchy. He pushed both hands under the bubbles and caught her legs. She squeaked, sounding very pleased, and he wiggled his brows, warning her. She visibly braced herself, and he pulled her towards him. She twisted and somehow still ended up straddling him, instead of spitting soapy water and flailing her arms helplessly. The usual nagging thought that she was way too fit for a night nurse flashed through his mind, but her hands were already sliding down, raking at his chest, and he stopped thinking. He caught the back of her head and pulled her to his lips.

* * *

Black King stepped on the roof, the long cloak thrashing in the wind. His movements were slightly stiff, four ribs slowly healing after the latest altercation with the goons of the Crimson Dragon. The posh wanker was once again after the chemical labs of the Erebor Inc., and Black King spent the last few nights hunting down the gangs of masked thugs.

He received the message from another vigilante, Golden Tide this morning. To be precise, she left him the coordinates and time, charred out on a billboard with her golden flame. He had always found her ability sort of… well, sexy. The ribbons of some strange golden energy would slither and hiss, weaving and blooming around her like a giant chrysanthemum. He had seen the ribbons burn through the thickest metal and rip car doors out.

She stepped out of the shadows, in her usual tight spandex, black and orange, the hood and the large goggles, covering the top part of her face, with a silk scarf covering the mouth. He suspected a voice modulator underneath it, and he was right.

"Alright, mate?" The voice was distorted but he could still catch the sexy purry intonations. He wondered if the chavvy accent was real. "Ta for coming."

"Your invitation was hard to ignore." He hadn't forgotten to turn on his own modulator built into the collar of his suit. She jumped off the higher part of the roof, in a graceful springy move, and started prowling towards him. God, those hips and the perky backside. The legs were long and shapely, buckles on her boots going up the sculpted calves, turning into lacing on her thighs. "What can I do you for?"

"Woah there, mate. Let's leave doing for when the city doesn't want to end you in." She gave out a snicker. "I am all arse over tits for you and your mental pectoral muscles, but at the moment, I'm more likely to arse you up than get you off." Her snark was part of her persona, but he himself knew how little truth the exterior of a masked vigilante bore.

"Pity," he deadpanned, and she pressed the fists into her hips. "So, are you here to, as you put it, arse me up?" He couldn't quite contain his sarcasm, which seeped even into the modulated voice.

"What? You think I can't? I can bloody cock you up before you say 'I'm a self-righteous codger.'" She opened her palm and one of her golden glowing flowers bloomed on it.

"I do not doubt it." He quickly estimated that if he decreased the density of the floor underneath her, she'd go down crashing through the roof. She still might have enough vigilance to jump out of the aggro, but he bet she wouldn't be able to 'cock him up' in the process. "I just think you would have started by now instead of chin wagging with me."

"You aren't that thick, are you?" She once again chuckled, jumped on the nearest chimney and sat there, dangling a foot in her high boot. "No, lovie, I'm here to offer you to be mates. Double act, partners in crime, and all other bobbins."

He tilted his head and gave her an evaluating look. He obviously couldn't see her face, but the body language spoke tons. She was relaxed and playing with a throwing knife in her hand. The movements were fidgety, and something scraped at his mind. Altogether, she looked as if she were cocking about in a hammock on a sunny day. There was this amazing feline grace about her, and he once again tried to stop thinking about the hips and the arse. He was only successful because there was another pair of legs and other buttocks that his mind was habitually preoccupied.

"You are offering me to team up?"

"Yep," she popped the last sound.

"Would you care to elaborate?" She cocked her head, probably hiking her eyebrows under the hood. "I just find it rather odd. The city thinks I'm a villain, and you are offering me your help."

"Well, you see, mate, the thing is, that way I'll be able to keep an eye on you. I still haven't decided whether it's true and the Crimson Git had brainwashed you. Or you are just gutted about that sidekick of yours dying, and you are a bit more jittery. I sort of think that bomb in a lab was a set up, but I'd rather know what your tight arse is up to, as opposed to having to fry up your bollocks because the mayor's demanding your head on a platter."

He watched her for a few seconds, moonlight dancing on the blade of her knife. It made sense. And he really could use some help. The Crimson Dragon was winning on all fronts.

He stepped ahead and stretched his hand to her.

"I accept your generous offer."

"Rad!" She clapped her hands and jumped off her perch. She approached him but didn't take his hand. "That juju of yours, making shite lighter and heavier, does it work on touch?" She seemed to be studying his hand. "You know, I'm fine with my weight." She patted her flat stomach. "No need in bloody extra stones."

"My ability is to change matter's density, it's not about weight. And it most definitely can't make you fatter."

"Shut your gob!" she cried out in pretense horror. "No saying the F word!" She then clasped her hand with his, and he felt a slight zap of her golden energy through his palm. "Alright, mate, let's see who's got bollocks in this couple."

* * *

They still hadn't established which one exactly had the bollocks for the next four months, but he couldn't say he wanted those months to pass in any other way. They made a great team. She was ballsy, fast, light. She was also very smart, and judging by a few slips, though she had been very careful, the chav tude was all mask. As much as she pretended that the only thing she knew about Caesar was the Septic salad, he was starting to slowly see so much behind the pikey chick image.

She had a strategic mind, and they had done in those months more than he had accomplished in the last five years. They fought together, they ran together, and with time he started noticing that after a mission would be over, they'd spend more and more time just sitting somewhere on a roof and relaxing. Sometimes, of course, neither just had any energy to move.

"So when did all that shite with density start?" she asked lazily. She lay on her back, eyes under the goggles either closed or studying the starry sky, and he suddenly wondered what colour the eyes were. That was odd. Before he just appreciated her as an ally, without giving a woman under the suit a single thought. He of course noticed the physique, but beside being spoken for, he also respected the vigilante too much to ponder the content of her spandex.

"I was thirteen. Usual age, as far I understand." He was sitting leaning his back on the rail of a fire escape. Everything bloody hurt, but they did well today.

"I was a late bloomer," she drew out, and then sat up and opened her palm with a small golden flower on it. "Bloomer, yeah? Get it?"

"Yes, I get it," he answered, and she laughed gleefully.

"You need to chill, mate. All crime fighting and no fun makes Black King a wazzack with quickly developing erectile dysfunction." She fell back again and stretched, arching her back on the roof. "Blimey, I'm flagged. Is it just me, or the manky gits are becoming quicker?"

He had no time to answer, when the first bullet swished by. On an instinct he jumped and covered her body with his. They hardly ever touched, and it felt so odd, to scoop her in his arms and roll under the nearest roof. And familiar. Bloody hell, it felt familiar. He had no time to analyze his mental sensations. The bullets rained, goons jumped seemingly from around every corner, and he released her.

The attack was well planned, and he quickly thought they really shouldn't have chosen the same roof for rest several evenings in a row. It just had such a great view.

In fifteen minutes it was becoming clear the goons should have come better prepared. From the corner of his eyes he saw four of them fly at every direction from her, golden ribbons hissing and slashing. He placed a punch on the face of the nearest thug, and then she shortly cried out. He swirled and saw her hand pressed into her left shoulder. Blood was pouring from under her palm, and she swayed.

"Tide!" he shouted and moved towards her when her right hand flew up, in a warning gesture, and a thug jumped on his back.

Black King twisted from out of the man's grasp, but a kick cut him down, and he toppled on the ground. Another man jumped at her. She swore dirtily, and he saw a golden wave hit the goon into his chest. The man flew backwards, and over the edge of the roof. Another one jumped at Black King, and received a kick into his solar plexus, and followed his mate...

...dragging Black King after him. The vigilante tried to find something to grab to, but it had just rained, the tiles were wet, and his body plummeted from the roof.

"King!" Her high-pitched scream came from above, and all he managed to do was to squeeze his eyes and channel his power underneath him, not knowing what was there, and just hoping it would crumple under his weight.

It felt like he'd crashed through five or six floors before hitting the ground. Most of the floor panels broke easily under his weight, affected by his ability, but then a long piece of some internal support went through his side, and he screamed in excruciating pain. For a few moments the world went black.

He groaned and rolled from under debris. The piece was still sticking out of him, and he jerked it out, lightening it up first. He pressed his palm over the wound. Blood was pouring on the asphalt under his feet, and he stumbled and walked out of the back alley he landed in.

And then a large explosion of golden light came from the roof. The building burnt and shook now, and then another kaboom came. He saw several bodies of goons fall off the sides, and then an immense flower of her power bloomed over it. A helicopter that was depositing new goons onto the roof during the fight didn't stand a chance. Long ribbons slithered like surreal pythons, wrapping around the blades of its propeller, more of them crawling and snaking under the panels, tearing it from inside. Altogether, and he had by now learnt her temper, she was not amused. Putting it in her language, she was 'arsing them up' in an immense fury.

He made a few unsure steps ahead. He was of no help now but he needed to know she was fine. Something crunched under his foot, and he saw his communicator smashed into pieces on the floor. Great, now he had no means to contact her.

He walked, blood dripping behind him, but it soon became clear he wouldn't make it there. He returned to the same back alley and heavily leaned on the wall. Police cars and helicopters arrived, and he assumed she was probably gone from the roof. That had been their protocol from the start. They hadn't discussed it but it went without saying. They both had their civilian life to protect, family, kin. The masks were worn for a reason. He waited for the barney to slightly calm down, and then he rang his brother-in-law. Changing in denim and a tee was hard, but he had the medical tape in his backpack. With a small help with his abilities he was as good as new. Meaning he could last till home, where he'd patch himself up and take as many painkillers as the tag on the bottle allowed. Well, and a couple more.

* * *

3.

The ring of his mobile woke John up, and he groaned. He dropped the hand on the floor, and rummaged in the bloodied rags that used to be his jeans and tee. He really should have cleaned, Dea or the sprogs could enter any moment. He had managed to walk by them, pretending to be bladdered. It hadn't been that hard, he could hardly stand. He then crashed in his usual guest room. To be honest, he should have gone to his place but there was just not enough energy in him.

"John?" Wren's voice was nasal, and he realised she was crying desperately.

"What is it?" He jerked to sit up and gritted his teeth. He looked down, the blood had seeped through the bandages and the tee, there was a spot on the sheets. He would have to clean them before Dea noticed. "Wren, what is it?"

"I'm sorry to bother you… I don't even know if you're at work, but..." Her voice broke, and he heard another suppressed sob. "But I really need you now… I know we never do that, and we meet when it's convenient for us both, but I need you now… I have lost… a patient today, and he was a friend, and I just can't..." He could just imagine a sob wreck her body. "Please, can you come? I'll give you my address."

He looked down at his side. With another dosage of pills he could probably get up. And again, she was right, they had always arranged dates when they both were free. This was new. This was serious. And he had never before seen or heard her cry. And she was inviting him over to her place.

It was either the pain, or the blood loss, or the sound of her voice, but he agreed and wrote down her address. The question remained, how was he going to hide the wound from her? On the other hand, she would hardly want to cop off in her state, John assumed. He'd make her tea, listen to her, they'd sit hugging on a li-lo or something.

Let's face it, he really needed a hug now.

In a spark of genius he pulled the top of his suit under a thick jumper. The spandex kept the bandages in place, reduced his sensitivity, so he could actually press his girlfriend into his side if he wished to, and it didn't feel that weird under the clothes. Well, if anything he'd lie as usual. He could say it was a back support after yet another unfortunate game of rugby. The excuse was getting old, but she never questioned it.

Her building was in a neat and posh block, but that was exactly what he expected. She once told him about a rich aunt of hers who left her a generous heritage. She hadn't given up her job in the hospital, but spend most of the money on the flat. John could relate. His extracurricular activities were also funded from his quite impressive trust fund.

She buzzed him up. There was no lift, the building was too old, and mid-stairs he realised it was a very bad idea. He was dizzy and nauseated from weakness, and it was only the matter of time for the blood to start running down his torso, then leg and into his shoe. But then he remembered her desperate voice, and hissing he made the last few steps.

The door was jerked open before he even lifted his hand to reach for the handle, and she ran into him and pressed into him clawing at his shoulders and sobbing.

"Thank you, thank you so much..." She muttered between sobs, and he wrapped his arms around her.

"It's nothing…" He was cupping the back of her head, and then he made a few steps into her flat leading her in. "I wouldn't leave you alone in this time..."

"I just couldn't be alone, it's so horrible… I just can't believe he's gone… I thought he'd ring, I waited, but there was so much blood..." He was making comforting shushing noises. Her mumbling made little sense, but it was understandable in the circumstances.

They stepped into a small parlour, stylishly decorated in country-manor esthetics, and he once again didn't expect anything less from her. He seated her on a cozy looking chestnut settee, and she hid her face into his chest. Her arms went around his middle, and suddenly she squeezed with astonishing strength. Through reinforced spandex it still felt like she was crushing his ribcage. He groaned. He'd probably keep his gob shut otherwise, but the silken holstery really didn't need his blood all over it.

"Wren, you are breaking my ribs..." She jerked and shied away from him.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" He saw her wince. "I forgot… I mean, I didn't mean to… It's just..." He looked at her face, the eyes were red and puffy, and dark purple shadows lay under them. Simply put, she looked completely broken.

"That patient, he was a friend then?" he asked softly, and her lips trembled.

"Yes, he was. God, I can't believe it..." Tears rolled down her cheeks again. "I haven't realised it, but he was perhaps one of my best friends. After Thea, but he was… We were close, you know… I think it was because we really understood each other." She pressed her elbows into her knees and dropped her face into the open palms. "I don't even know where the body is… Whether the cops got to him, or… God, they will open him up now..." She was sobbing loudly again, and John felt even more nauseated. She was rather nonchalant about medical stuff; that he knew about her, but the fact that she was thinking about her late friend's autopsy was a bit too much for him in his state. "God, I've been such a bitch to him sometimes, I should have told him… How much I admired him, and that I trusted him, and how important he was to me..."

John had to admit, he was getting a bit jealous. It was properly bonkers and he should hate himself for it, of course. The bloke was her friend and… well, dead, but she was so crushed and just kept on complimenting the bloke, whom John, by the way, hadn't heard anything about up until now. How come they had been such great mates, and her boyfriend was hearing about the man only now?

"And no one will ever know, how much he had done, and how much we all owe him..." She once again shifted and pressed her face into his chest. He started stroking her hair, his cheek pressed to the top of her head.

"I lost my brother two years ago," he whispered. "Fred… He was younger, and I was responsible for him." John had never told anyone about it. Dea knew of course, but John fed her the same old lie about street mugging. Somehow he just couldn't lie to Wren. She sniffled into his jumper. "He always followed me, and it was my fault..." He tried not to think about Fred's broken body down on the pavement under the roof the Dragon pushed him of.

"I'm sorry…" she whispered, and he hummed in response. They sat in silence for a bit.

"It wasn't worth it," she suddenly said in a grave voice. "What he did, the good he did… it wasn't worth his death. Not his… People didn't deserve his sacrifice. He should've let everyone sort out their own shite, and he would live… God, was it my fault?" She pushed away from John and looked at his face as if expecting him to answer. "Were he alone then, would he have survived? God, did I make it worse?"

"Wren, what happened to your friend?" John asked carefully, and she wiped her eyes with her hands.

"Um… Street mugging. Can you pass me the tissues?" She asked and pointed at the box on a small journal table. He grabbed it and passed it on to her. She lifted her right hand, and only then he noticed the stiffness of her movements. And the edge of something white peeking from under the collar of her jumper. On the left shoulder.

He was an idiot. Was he? He really was.

But how?.. His mind worked frantically. Everything was right in front of him. Why didn't he see it? Because that was absolutely fucking impossible. Too much coincidence. Improbable. Inconceivable. Fucking out there.

Her fluid feline movements. The strength she just squeezed him with and had done before, in bed, when he would be too far gone to care. Bruises on her body. Night shifts.

He was studying her face, as if seeing it for the first time. The willful pointy chin, lips pressed in distress, little wrinkles in the corners of her eyes. Fuck him, of course, the eyes. They were of this strange amber colour, sometimes light hazel, sometimes light green. And fuck him again, how many times had he told himself he just imagined the glimmer of golden in them?

The electricity that ran through his body when she'd orgasm in his arms...

He wondered what was there, behind the closed door from her parlour. A computer? A room full of throwing knives and her favourite katanas? A gym with ropes and weights?

And then he realised she was crying over him. His alleged death. She was sitting on the sofa, completely defeated, tears running down her pale cheeks. She said he had been important to her, that she trusted him, that she admired him. That felt nice. Now, since the truth emerged, it was nice to hear.

"How's your shoulder, Wren?" He asked lightly, and she shook her head distractedly.

"It's fine, I stitched it..." she answered, and then froze with her mouth half open.

She had always been a smart girl. Both of them were. His noggin was working on 200% capacity at the moment, industriously fusing two women in his life together. His girlfriend and his best friend. It was difficult, but not impossible. Instead of a ginger and a snarky one he now had a snarky ginger. She was staring at him, still having not blinked once.

And then she punched him in his jaw.

His head whipped sideways, she clearly held back, but it was still sensitive.

"Fuckhead!" she screamed at the top of her lungs. "Why didn't you ring me? I thought you were dead! Fucker!" She jumped at him, blows raining on him. He wrapped his arms around her, but she kept on raging and trying to kick him. "I'm pouring my heart here, I thought you died because of me! You wanker! Wanker!"

He tried to contain her, but after all superhero thing included superstrength, and he was properly weakened. She was yelling some more obscenities at him, and he swayed and toppled on the floor, accidentally pulling her with him. Or maybe not so accidentally.

His side met the carpet covered floor, and he hissed.

"Oh god, John, let me see!" She immediately went into her doctor mode. He was suddenly on his back, her hands were roaming him, examining, prodding, and then she found the hem of spandex. "Are you an idiot?!" Even swearings sounded posh on her lips, and he suddenly started guffawing. And that was the woman who'd been calling him 'guvna' for four months.

"Are you actually a nurse?" he asked and received a glare from her. She was deftly pulling off clothes from his upper half.

"I'm a certified surgeon. And, blimey, John, what kind of butcher's work is this?" She pointed at the extensively bleeding wound on his side. "Do you even have anyone to patch you up?"

"Fred used to," he answered. "After he was gone, I just do it myself."

"Then you are definitely an idiot. That's the most bodged up stitching I've ever seen."

"Well, show me how it's done then." He just couldn't stop laughing. She hissed another curse at him and rushed into the next room. The door stayed ajar, and yeah, a gym, and katanas, and knives, and a computer with whole bunch of screens. Just like in his back room.

She came back with a large doctor's kit.

"Can you get up? Can you get to the bed?"

"What, now? I might be lacking in performance today." He just couldn't stop joking. Probably from blood loss.

Or maybe from how perfect it all was. In a convoluted, masked vigilante way, but perfect.

"Don't even hope for anything!" she sneered, pulling bottles, swabs, needles and threads out of the box. "Once I patch you up, we are done. You are a lying bastard! You let me cry over you, I was as much reading you an eulogy here." Despite her snarling words, her hands were gentle, and he closed his eyes. "What did you take?"

He obediently listed the pills. She called him an imbecile. He was fine with it. As long as she continued touching him. Her hands were cool and dry, and he was almost in heaven. Almost, since it fucking hurt as if a rabid dog was nibbling on his insides.

She fished out a giant splinter of wood out of him, called him a moron, and then suddenly her hands cupped his face, and he felt her lips on hers.

"God, you are alive! King, you're alive! I thought I'd die… I went down, and there was so much blood, and I was losing consciousness from the blood loss, and I thought the Dragon's goons got your body..." His eyes flew open, and he looked at her. Her tears dripped on his cheeks, and he stroked her jaw with his thumb, pushing his fingers in her extraordinary ginger hair.

"I'm here, mate." She sobbed and pressed her forehead to his.

"God, I love you so much." They just somehow never said the words. Well, he guessed, they now did.

"And I love you," he murmured and kissed her forehead. She straightened up and gave him another glare.

"I'll patch you up, and then I'm done with you. Both of you. No more shagging, no more fighting crime together. You lied to me and let me think I lost my best friend." He was almost certain she wasn't serious, but he wasn't going to risk it.

"I only figured it just now! When I saw you weren't moving your left shoulder properly!"

"Damn straight I'm not moving it properly. Two bullets went through it," she grumbled, and he grabbed the back of her neck and jerked her to him. "John, I need to sew your side. What..?"

"Hush, just give me a moment." He pressed her to him, and she stilled, a curved needle still in her hand. "I also almost lost my best friend just now too." She exhaled softly, and her unoccupied hand stroked his chest tenderly.

"How didn't I see it?" she asked pensively. "Seriously, I have been shagging with you, and it's not like you are an average looking bloke. I guess, it just seemed so very impossible." She twisted from under his hand and went back to tending to his side. He closed his eyes and breathed through it.

* * *

He properly fancied her sheets. And the pillows. And the duvets. All very nice and expensive, Egyptian cotton, and it smelled so nice, her favourite lilacs, and something else, fresh and flowery. Maybe it was her skin. He was patched up, given a shot, scolded for being irresponsible, which he accepted with a loopy smile and loved up eyes. Then he was given a sponge bath, which he very, very much appreciated, and then she put him down in her bed. She carefully curled into his left side, conveniently on her right shoulder, and her hand was drawing some random squiggles on his chest. He remembered that Tide mentioned his pectoral muscles, and far from once, and Wren loved to bite into them and play with chest hair, and he suddenly laughed. It was shaky, but very cheerful.

"What?"

"Now I know what our role playing will be like, if we ever get bored of just shagging," he mumbled, running his fingers through her soft orange curls. They were silky and heavy, and he sleepily wondered how she even managed to contain them under the hood. "I properly fancy the orange spandex on your bum…"

"No, now that we know the truth, we will have to role play that we are common people with no abilities and excitement in life, and we are married, with kids, and matching Volvos."

"We can still have it. After a few years of crime..." he yawned widely, "fighting, we can give it up, and move, and have kids, and matching Volvos..."

"I don't like Volvos..." she muttered and nuzzled his shoulder. He noted she didn't object to kids.

"I'm all for Tesla, love. Cover or not, I do have a computer science degree." She lifted her head and looked him over.

"So, that's what we're doing now? Telling each other the whole truth and no more covers?" Her eyes were studying him, and he smiled to her.

"Yes, but starting tomorrow… Because whatever you gave me is working…" Another yawn followed, and he couldn't keep his eyes open anymore. "It's so good now… So much easier." His thoughts were muddling. "I can actually look at your arse in spandex… I kinda haven't even thought of it, but you don't wear knickers under it, do you..?" He heard her snort.

"Nice to know that you weren't mentally cheating on me with me." The thought was a bit too convoluted for him now, and he was warm, and it almost didn't hurt, and she was near.

"I love you, Wren…" He could hardly move his lips. "And Tide too, I think I might love her too..."

"Sleep, duffus." Her voice was affectionate, and he felt her soft lips press to the corner of his mouth. "We love you too."

* * *

 **A/N: How did I do with 'Wren and John as superheroes' prompt? ;)**

* * *

 **A/N#2: I actually like this story myself... which is rare with me. But I do so much so that I doodled Golden Tide and am considering to maybe draw these two some more. You can find the picture on my Instagram (kkolmakov) and on Deviantart (same nick.)**

* * *

 **Note to reader :**

 **Well, what can I say, Wynni? :) I'm sure you know yourself that no one squeals louder than you among my readers, no one gets frustrated more when Thorin is once again being stubborn, and no one bugs me more for an update :) Nothing compares to your Southern enthusiasm and your unbound love for my characters! Thank you for that!**


	4. What's in the Plans?

**For** **Gonat** **!**

 **Prompt: "Architect John and Interior Designer Wren have to work together for a posh mountain chalet project of a rich customer. But they have a different understanding of their customers wishes which leads to constant discussions and project stops – so they are called for an on-site-meeting. Separately on the way to the chalet, heavy weather conditions approaching ... :-)"**

* * *

"God, I don't think I've ever hated anyone that much! Just mentioning of his name makes me so angry I'm going to..." Wren flailed her hands in the air, searching for an adequate metaphor. She emitted a half growl, half hiss. "Explode!"

She jumped on her feet and started running in small circles in the middle of her office. Her colleague and best friend Thea was watching her in amusement. This outburst of ginger fury had been repeating itself every Monday, after each meeting with the client. The client was alright, by the way. It was more about a certain…

"Imbecile!" Wren cried out, and kicked her rubbish bin. The stylish metal tube made a sad clanking noise and rolled on the floor.

"Imbecilic, moronic… buffoon!" Wren continued. "Pompous, cantankerous, overbearing, inflexible, imperious… clown!" Each of the words was accompanied by a stomp of Wren's louboutin. Thea sniggered.

"You're properly into this bloke, aren't you?" she asked cheekily.

"He is adding a window! A window!" Wren hollered and pointed at the building plan pinned to her board. "Now! Can you imagine it?! He is adding! A window! Now!"

"I heard you the first six times, Wren." Thea gave out another snigger. "He is the architect of the project, darling. He can add anything at any time. His part of the job isn't over yet."

"It'll ruin the lighting!" Wren cried out into the skies. The many bracelets around her delicate wrists melodically lamented her distress. "He's not listening! He's not taking anything into consideration! I'm the interior designer here, I'm not his lackey, and he thinks he's the king of the project! Just because his disgusting face is plastered over every architecture magazine cover, it doesn't mean he can mess up my design! And he dares to show up late! And in a tee!" Wren's voice reached an unprecedented height.

"Oh my..." Thea gave her best impersonation of Sulu. "I regret missing that meeting with every fiber of my being. Those arms, and in a tee..."

"It's no time for your libidinousness, Thea!" Wren flopped into her hysterically yellow velvet Lewis' Mr Bright armchair. She pouted and started angrily dangling her ickle foot. Thea's eyes followed the movement of the black stiletto with the iconic red heart on top. "Oohhh, he makes me so… angry! Self-assured, recalcitrant, dictatorial… halfwit!"

"You do realise, that's not how people swear, don't you?" Thea asked, already laughing openly. "You aren't supposed to use words longer than five letters, and his relatives and body parts are supposed to be mentioned!"

"I'm not interested in his body parts!" Wren squealed. "I need him to stop to go with the mad ideas of our unruly client, and I need him to stop changing everything at the very last moment. What am I supposed to do with those three Wahalla chandeliers I've ordered?"

"Oh, just stuff them into the project you're doing with Lee Mirkwood!" Thea dismissed it with a disdainful snort. "The bloke wants to knob you so hard he'll agree on putting human size Mickey Mouses around that house." Wren groaned and dropped her head at the back of the chair.

"God, he's just creepy! He showed up on our latest meeting in something that looked like a bathrobe. I get it, he's a new wave architect..." she drew out sarcastically, rolling her eyes. "But seriously, Gary Glitter wore that outfit for his concert in '70."

"So, back to John Crispin Thorington..." Thea suggested, and Wren hissed like a vampire presented with a garlic toast.

"Don't even mention his name! Seriously! I'm having an allergic reaction!" Wren grabbed a stress ball and squeezed it six times in a row. "God, I could just strangle him! I just can't stand him! With his condescending smirks, and his ridiculous strut, and those shoulders, and his luscious mane, and the blue eyes, and all that six five body of an Asiatic black bear!"

It took Thea half an hour to stop howling with roaring laughter. Wren pushed her out of her office, flopped back into her chair, and started angrily nibbling the end of her pencil.

Maybe, she thought, if she ran John Crispin Thorington with her Rover, she could finish the cursed project in peace.

When, half an hour later, she got an email from the client scheduling yet another on site meeting, she started looking up 'premeditated hit and run' on Google.

* * *

Wren had never been ashamed to admit she was a terrible driver. She just couldn't do it. And because she was also mildly intelligent, she'd never behave recklessly. She had a good car, and drove very slowly.

Which didn't help much when her Rover caught a side drift on the country road leading to the location, and the black beast slid, and dragged, and soon she found herself in a ditch, dipped into it at forty five degrees. Because it happened slowly - and thus, twice as humiliatingly - the airbags didn't activate. The car just sort of sadly sank. And then Wren pressed and pressed the pedal, and tried to get out, but nothing happened, and she dropped her head on the wheel and took a few calming breaths in.

The situation wasn't that bad, let's face it. She was indeed in the middle of nowhere, but the car was working, so she was warm despite the snowstorm that caused her to lose track of the road in the first place. She fished out her mobile from her Vuitton and dialed the client. She profoundly apologised for cancelling the meeting, without going into details of course. The last thing she needed was a wave of some chauvinistic comments. Then she contacted the road assistance. They informed her they'd be there as soon as they could. Which would be six o'clock in the morning of the next day. Wren looked at her watch. Half past ten in the evening. The nearest village was couple hours away - too far to walk in this flurry for certain; she had no one to ring to pick her up; and she had plenty of petrol. Wren decided that sitting in her car and reading on her phone was her best bet.

When the knock to her window came, she jumped up so high that her head met the ceiling. And the loud high-pitch squeal she emitted was no less embarrassing.

Rubbing her head, Wren turned and saw the worst possible picture she could see in these circumstances.

Wren closed her eyes for a second, praying to all gods and deities for patience and for not making a murderer out of her, and lowered her window. A rush of cold air, full of thick fluffy snow, filled her car.

"Good evening, Ms Leary." Thorington smiled to her - very arrogantly, as she thought - and she imagined clobbering him to the head with the riding helmet she had at the back and neatly burying his body in the snow. She properly hated this condescending smile of his.

"Evening, Mr Thorington." Wren kept her face calm and nonchalant. She wasn't going to give him the pleasure of stating the obvious! She was indeed in a ditch, so a question regarding what had happened would be excessive, so she just gave him a polite nod.

"Would you be so kind as to let me in?" he asked decorously, and she sighed. She had half a mind to close the window and go back to her Dick Francis novel.

The lock made a soft noise, and she watched Thorington plod through the drifts in front of her car. At some point he slipped, made a spasmodic movement with his arms, and grabbed the bonnet. Still, she stood correct, he definitely looked like a bear.

He slid on the passenger seat, and Wren looked at him sideways. The stylish Hermes jacket and a jolly colourful scarf made him look very cozy, but she knew better: he was as cuddly as she was patient. All they'd been doing since they started working on the same project was yelling at each other. He was surprisingly quiet though. She expected a venomous remark right away.

He dragged his gloves off and stuck his hands closer to the heater vent.

And that's when it finally clicked in Wren's brain.

"Your car is stuck in the snow too!" she blurted out, and Thorington sniffled loudly. His nose was pink. Wren studied his face. Given it was his usual regal expression, she still could guess a hint of embarrassment underneath.

"So, yours is not running, I reckon," she said. "Considering how you have this blue tinge to your skin." Thorington sniffled again and continued staring straight ahead. Wren enjoyed his tense silence for ten seconds, and then theatrically picked up her phone, and pretended to go back to her reading.

"When is your road assistance coming?" he asked in a scratchy voice couple minutes later.

"Six," she answered lightly, and to add insult to injury she pulled out a Jordan Frusli cereal bar out of her handbag and started rustling with the wrapper, keeping her eyes on the screen.

Thorington made some movement near her, but Wren deftly ignored him. And Terre D'Hermes now filling her car, and slowly creeping into her nose. And how small her usually massive car suddenly felt. And how he seemed to emanate heat.

Thorington unzipped his jacket, and leaned back on the seat. Wren reminded herself to at least pretend to scroll the screen down. She needed to sustain the illusion, after all.

"Would you have another cereal bar, Ms Leary?" Apparently, the architect thawed. And together with his massive, oversized… ego, so did his velvet, rumbly voice. Shiver ran down Wren's spine. She rummaged in the handbag, with one hand, without looking, fished out another bar, and pushed it towards him, her eyes on this screen.

He didn't deserve her attention!

The wrap crinkled, and then it was quiet. Wren gritted her teeth, held her breath, but nothing helped. The cologne, and the overbearing presence were driving her bonkers! She peeked, and saw his jaw move under the thick black beard. The cheek was funnily rounded from a piece of the bar. Alright, Wren had to admit, she'd lied to Thea. She had noticed the physique. One had to be blind and possibly carbonited like Solo to ignore the six five of muscles, and thick hair, and the most glorious bone structure. The high cheekbones, the beautiful masculine but elegant hands, the forearms! Wren was neither blind, nor asexual. And goodness her, the profile! At the moment the tip of the nose was still slightly pink, which somehow made him a bit adorable, which before she thought impossible. Sexy like hell, with its length, and the nobility, and the line of dark whiskers, and the soft lips underneath, but adorable, no...

"So, not only you're stroppy and uncooperative, you're also a poor driver."

And… all the charm was gone! Who in the name of Rassilon did he think he was?!

"I'm sorry… what?" Wren hissed, narrowing her eyes at him. He gave her a calm mocking look from under one hiked up eyebrow.

"Well, your car is in a ditch." He gestured around him with her cereal bar. Her cereal bar, mind you! The nerve on the man! "I'm not judging, I'm just making an observation..."

"An observation?!" Wren threw her Android on the panel, focusing all her attention - and all her fury - on the architect, who was chewing another bite of the cereal bar with a somewhat detached expression. "Just like you made a non-judgemental observation to our client that the stairs I designed were too wide?!"

They weren't! They were perfect! Presumptuous, conceited… clot!

"And our client has agreed with me. And after all..." Thorington gave her another of his lopsided smirks. God, she hated the man! "Your stairs didn't go with my window."

"There was no window then!" Wren shrieked, and pointed her finger at his long, prominent nose. "You added the window three weeks after, and of course it didn't go together!"

"The window made sense. Your stairs didn't. Just as your idea with the lowered chandeliers won't. You might as well give them up to the Mirkwood project," he added in a sarcastic tone, and stuffed the rest of - she needed to point out once again - _her_ cereal bar in his mouth and chewed.

His eyes were on her face, one corner of his lips curled up, and the corresponding eyebrow cocked up.

Wren gasped. What was wrong with him?! Her mind thrashed, in search of the best way to vent, and to avenge her bruised professional ego. She wasn't sure which option to go for: to punch him, to kick him out into the snowstorm, or to sneer something insulting and to the point? OK, maybe she couldn't swear, but she had plenty of venom when she needed to. She could, for example, remind him that the aforementioned Mirkwood had snatched The RIBA Award from under Thorington's nose last year. Or that he was at _her_ mercy! In _her_ car! Finishing _her_ cereal bar!

Instead she jerked open the sides of her coat, quickly shifted, and straddled the architect. Her eyes were right in front of his, and she hissed, "I hate your window idea. It's pretentious, and you're only doing it because it's your signature move. The chalet can go without it. And I hate your soffits!"

He studied her for a millisecond, his eyes grew darker, and he pushed his hand around her neck, into the hair at the back of her head, and a shudder ran through her body.

"Oh yeah? What else?" His tongue darted out, and ran his bottom lip, his burning eyes roaming her face. She grabbed a handful of his silky dark waves - there was none of his customary ponytail today, the hair was scattered on his shoulders, and looked so lush, with the silver strands in it, smaller curls around his face, wet from the snowfall. She pulled it back, making him drop his head back. He gave her a feral grin.

"The double supports to the oversailing canopy?" Wren sneered into his face. "Could you be anymore supercilious?"

And then she leaned in and pressed her open mouth to his throat. The combination of the fresh, grassy fragrance of his skin, with the spiciness of the cologne, and the frosty smell of the snowy outside - together with the whiskers of his black beard scraping at her teeth - made her head spin.

His second hand slid under her coat, on her waist, and then her back. The palm was large, and the fingers long, splayed on her shoulder blades, scorching even through her jumper. She moved her lips down, along the tendons of the strong neck, and then up again, closer to his ear.

"And I still doubt your choice of timber..." she whispered, and he shook his head, just like her horse, Hamlet would when she'd trial his patience.

"Say whatever you want about my windows and my canopy…" Thorington growled, pushing her coat off her shoulders, cupping the back of her head, and jerking her to him. "But don't touch my timber!"

His greedy hot mouth was on her neck now, and she purred. He alternated between gentle kisses and small hungry bites, and she ground her hips into him. He made a low humming noise into her skin, and then his hands slid down, and cupped her buttocks. In her skin tight Chanel trousers she felt as if he was leaving scorched handprints on her bum.

"God, this arse..." he breathed out, and nipped the skin on her throat. "All I could think about since day one..."

She grabbed the zipper of his jacket and jerked it down. He wiggled his massive shoulders, and she dragged the jacket off, and then picked up the hem of his dark red jumper for good measure. It followed the previous items, and she sank her nails into his chest, through a white tee.

"You have no professional ethics!" she mumbled, tenderly biting his ear. "Why are you always dressed like a lumberjack? Just because you're a fad now, doesn't mean you can come to meetings in a tee."

He twisted his head, and leaned in. He pushed his nose in her hair, and she felt the warm lips on the sensitive skin behind her ear.

"I like comfort. And you're perpetually overdressed. What's with the constant stilts?" His voice was low and smoky, and she felt one of his hands properly fondle her right buttock, and then the nimble strong fingers danced down, along her leg, and locked around her ankle. "It's really hard not to stare at your ankles in all those mental shoes you wear..."

His deft digits snaked inside her Zanotti ankle boots, and she felt him caress the round bone with the tips of his fingers.

"It's all about aesthetics, you brute," she snarled into his ear. "And sending the message to the overbearing cretins around me. I am not a pushover!"

"You are anything but," he chuckled. "Sometimes I think you argue for the sake of arguing." He slightly moved away from her, and she saw his brilliant cerulean eyes.

"I do not!" she barked at him, and jerked the buckle on his belt. "I just can't stand most of your ideas!"

"Your design is too bold, it's too much for this chalet." He smiled widely and pulled off her jumper.

"Your ideas are too conformist!" She grabbed his ear and pulled him closer. "The chalet needs some flair!" She then bit into his jaw, enjoying the beard, and rubbing her fanny to his raging erection through two layers of trousers.

"I've been called the most innovative architect of this decade. I have lashings of flair!" he rasped out, and she felt him unzip her trousers.

"Then you're holding back on this project, because it's dull!" she hissed into his ear, which she then licked, and he suddenly guffawed.

"I just can't stand the client." She froze, her hands pushed up under his tee, almost on his chest she - maybe - couldn't stop thinking since day one.

"Really?" She met his eyes, and he smiled widely and nodded.

"He is so puffed up, isn't he?" she asked, forgetting the seductress act. "You seemed so chummy together, though. You've been meeting his every whim."

"We'd have a glass tower by now if I met his every whim. I'm restricting him as much as I can."

Wren's eyes went glassy for a moment while she imagined it, and then she shuddered in horror.

"A glass tower… Goodness me, the man needs a leash."

"I _am_ the leash," Thorington chuckled, and she focused on him again.

"And you seem to think I need one too," she pointed out sardonically, suddenly remembering where her hands were. She shifted them a bit higher, and finally tangled her fingers into the thick chest hair just as she wanted since day one. Bear, definitely a bear!

"Of course you do. You're out of control." The tone was the same authoritative, cantankerous one, with a tinge of teasing now, and she decided he needed to shut up.

She pushed one hand down his stomach, noting the rock hard muscles, and into his open zipper.

Oh...

"It's too big!" she squeaked, and he guffawed again.

"Well, quoting Master Yoda..." he started, and that's when she kissed him for the first time.

Yes, she still thought he was intolerable, but he was quoting Star Wars! And maybe she wanted it since day one.

His hands stroked her back, abandoning her arse for a bit, and she arched into him, making happy moaning sounds. He was so, so good! All randy and gropy - just the right amount - but also so gentle and sweet when kissing! And she peeked and saw the fluffy lashes, and his eyes were closed, and oh my...

It was getting very, very hot in her Rover. The windows were fogged, and she lifted her bum and pulled down her trousers, and the knickers too, for good measure of course. And then she tore her mouth off his and bent backwards, to the glove box, looking for Durex.

He was panting, and the large hand were now kneading her naked buttocks.

She rolled the condom, and shifted, and aligned them. She had a short terrifying thought of it still might have been a bad idea, and how she'd walk tomorrow, but he slid in without much trouble. It was snug, of course, but so, so good.

"God, so tight..." he breathed out, and pressed his face into her neck.

She moved her hips experimentally, and they both groaned. 'Tight' was an understatement.

"This..." she moaned out, rising and then slowly sinking down, "Doesn't change the fact… that you are still a..." Her voice broke, from a sharp wave of pleasure that made her skin cover in goosebumps, and every muscle in her body shiver in sweet thrill. "You're still a… Oh god..." The tip poked some back wall inside her, and sent an electric buzz into her stomach, and she dropped her head back. He tenderly kissed her jaw adding to the magic. "You're a stuck up…"

"Half-witted, scruffy-looking… Oh… Nerf herder?" he asked, seemingly in no more control over his voice than her.

"Oh god..." she whimpered, and then he picked up her bum, helping her rise and move, and she rolled her hips into him, more and more forcefully, decisively aiming for her own climax. He didn't seem to mind, though.

His hands were grazing her side, stroking her back, and rubbing the back of her neck, and she'd never felt better. She - maybe - had been trying not to stare at the aforementioned hands sliding on plans and flying around with a pencil since day one. Oh, whom was she kidding, she imagined them all over her from the start!

"I..." She rose especially high, and he made a growl like noise. "Still… Hate… The window..."

"Fuck the window," he snarled through gritted teeth, and she made a very surprised 'oh' sound, and came.

It felt like a nuclear explosion, that started in her fanny, and then spread in a devastating wave through her whole body. That's what the Death Star felt after that one precise shot of Luke's T-65B X-wing starfighter.

Her eyes were still wide open, she was staring at him as if asking what exactly was this wonder, her lips still rounded, when he bucked his hips sharply, and then jerked her down, to sink on him.

She managed to squeak "what?' when he came, swearing intricately and dirtily, his hips jumping on the seat of her Rover, his hands pushing her down, to meet him.

There was a moment of complete stillness, and then they both fell, floppily, on the seat, and her arms hung passively down. He had his wrapped around her, the fingers of the right hand on her nape, warm and so very pleasant.

"The window can stay..." she mumbled, and he chuckled. The fingers started moving, drawing some soft light twirls on her skin. She purred and nuzzled his shoulder. "But I want my chandeliers..."

"No way," he answered, shifted, and tenderly kissed her temple. She rose and met his eyes. He was smiling softly, and she leaned in and brushed her lips to the corner of his mouth.

"Now, you're arguing for the sake of arguing..." she returned him his earlier line. He grinned wider.

"Of course, I properly fancy arguing with you..." He wiggled his eyebrows, and she giggled.

She climbed off him, with a very content sigh, and he quickly cleaned up with tissues from her glove box.

They pulled some clothes on, moved on the backseat, he leaned back, she curled into him. She was feeling sleepy, and his hand tenderly rubbing her back and the other one caressing her wrist weren't helping her to keep her eyes open.

* * *

John was pondering the jump bat tucked behind her driver's seat, when she shifted and gently clawed at his chest. He looked down at the adorable freckled nose.

"Are we having a conflict of interest now?" she asked, and yawned with gusto.

"Why?" he asked absentmindedly. "We are no coppers, or teacher and student. We work on the same project, and we shagged. Can't see any trouble here."

"Good," she affirmed, and settled more comfortably on his chest. "Because I'm planning to do this again very soon."

"Good," he mimicked her intonation. "How's tomorrow evening, after dinner?" he asked, but she didn't answer. He looked down and saw she was already asleep. He smiled slightly, and moved a mad orange curl off her face. She made a happy sniffly noise, and snuggled into him tighter.

John pulled his Android from his pocket and started reading the new issue of _Architectural Review_.

* * *

 **My darling Nat, thank you for all the generous, kind reviews, and for your lovely, supportive personal messages! Having readers like you makes writing the most rewarding experience!**

 **Best,**

 **Katya**


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